


Fan Mail

by Abbie



Category: Arrow (TV 2012)
Genre: Alternate Universe - Canon Divergence, F/M, Post Season 2, Prompt Fic, Stalking
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2014-12-29
Updated: 2014-12-29
Packaged: 2018-03-04 03:58:17
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,818
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/2908520
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Abbie/pseuds/Abbie
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>It starts with fanmail, but after Slade's apprehension, the obsession escalates and it's unclear who is in more danger: Felicity or Oliver. They're going to need to stick together to get through this.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Fan Mail

**Author's Note:**

> Written for a prompt by voubledision on Tumblr. Posted as a standalone because it's possible there may be a short continuance.

The first one was weird, but kinda funny.

Felicity regularly screened through Oliver’s email; it was a habit begun in the ugly days of playing his EA, and continued afterwards because _somebody_ needed to go through that hellbox.

He got fanmail regularly. He was, after all, a fairly famous person; rich, handsome, and on the surface “exciting.”

This email had seemed like the fairly standard gushing praise and awed fawning over Oliver and his supposedly awesome life, though this obsession seemed less about lust than admiration.

There was a paragraph towards the bottom that surprised Felicity, however, when it took a moment to enviously mention Oliver’s _“gorgeous right-hand woman.”_ She’d preened a little at the phrase, pleased to be recognized as important, and not just Oliver’s “cute secretary.”

It was a little odd to be noticed by one of Oliver’s fans (and not in a demeaning, catty way), but still. Kind of nice.

Every two or three weeks, another email came. It was always from a different address, on a different email client, but she got to the point she could recognize the way an author sounded.

What got _weirder_ was that the sender consistently brought up Felicity. With increasing focus and… detail, actually. It was when they mentioned a dress she’d worn on a _Saturday_ lunch she was actually fairly certain hadn’t been ruined by paparazzi that the first tingle of unease snaked through Felicity’s belly.

She’d been stalked before. She could recognize the signs of _unhealthy_ obsession. She just wasn’t sure if this “fan” was fixated on her, or Oliver. She decided not to bother Oliver with it until her concerns were more concrete, and informed. As soon as she had the time, she’d do an in-depth search on their little friend.

When things got really intense with Slade and Isabel, Felicity got too busy to sift through Oliver’s email. For weeks, she forgot about the alarming fanmail and focused more on immediate, pressing dangers.

It wasn’t until a couple of weeks after incarcerating Slade on Lian Yu that Felicity remembered to check Oliver’s email again. It was, of course, overflowing.

The number of them that she recognized as being written by their fan, however, had absolutely ramped up.

They started out sympathetic. They wrote Oliver how they were sorry things were getting so tough, how Oliver was so clearly in over his head even though he was trying. With chilling, chiding asides not to take for granted how Felicity was always there for Oliver to lean on.

 _"Felicity"_ —it was the first time the writer had used her first name, and the increasing sense of familiarity was _creepy_.

The tone of the fanmail rapidly shifted. Oliver lost the company; Felicity lost her job; Moira lost her life.

Their “fan” lost all sense of empathy, patience, and boundaries.

They were frustrated with Oliver. Blamed him for letting his family company fall into the hands of someone as nasty as Isabel Rochev. Berated him for letting the company—and more specifically, Felicity—down. Raked him over the coals for _"wasting"_ Moira’s sacrifice.

The most recent email was addressed directly to Felicity.

 _"I know you’re reading these,"_ the fan wrote fervently, _"and I want you to know, Oliver may undervalue you and take you for granted, he may neglect and abuse you and refuse to see how perfect and incredible you are._

 _"But I will always see you."_ Felicity bit her thumbnail, eyes wide and face pale, lips parted in recognition and numb fear. _"And I’ll show you exactly what you’re worth."_

Felicity resolved to leave the boys to recovery duty on the foundry for a few hours without her, and went home with the determination to track down this stalker-fan and—and…

Heading up the sidewalk from her parked car towards her front stoop, Felicity stopped in her tracks, shoulders drooping.

What could she do? Compile evidence, take it to the police? How would she explain uncovering the sender’s identity? She’d already been in trouble with SCPD for hacking once before, and Detective Lance was still on mandatory medical leave. And Felicity knew from firsthand experience _exactly_ how ineffective a restraining order could be, and how unhelpful police could be in cases of stalking.

But she shook herself, and reminded herself, “You are a _vigilante_ , Felicity Smoak. You are practically superhero-adjacent.” She nodded to herself. “If Slade Wilson can’t rattle you, nothing can.”

Shifting her keys to jab between her knuckles, Felicity, walked up to her front door, checked up and down the street, and went inside, disarming the alarm as she shrugged out of her coat.

Now, she just needed the extra tablet and her secure laptop from her bedroom…

When she stood in the door of her bedroom and flipped on the light, every inch of steel in her spine dissolved, her keys dropping to the floor with a clatter.

There in the center of her bed was a riotously colorful arrangement of flowers—and artfully situated in front of it, a sandy-blond bear in a gray suit, a folded note pinned to its chest by butterfly knife.

Breath rattling in her throat, exhaling a whine, Felicity rapidly looked around the room, but it wasn’t exactly full of hiding places. Her closet door was as wide open as she’d left it that morning, harboring nothing but too many clothes and an army of shoes.

Stiffly, Felicity crossed to her bed and pulled the knife out of the bear, grimacing at the fuzzy stuffing that spilled onto her bedspread. With trembling fingers, she unfolded the note.

_"I won’t let him take you for granted again.”_

Felicity dropped the note back on the bed, the shaking in her body stopping as suddenly as it started, her chin coming up sharp and firm.

This person wasn’t just stalking _her_. It wasn’t just _Felicity_ that was being threatened.

And this—this, she could deal with.

Pulling her phone out of the pocket of her cardigan, Felicity thumbed the second speed dial button and held her breath, edging backward to put her back to the wall and her hand around the grip of the baseball bat Diggle’d given to her last year that lived beside her dresser.

"Felicity," Oliver greeted. There was background noise, other people, maybe a restaurant or a coffee shop? He didn’t seem to be at the foundry anymore. "What’s up?"

"I need you to come over," she spoke firmly, calmly. "We have a problem."

Oliver’s voice focused intensely. “Are you okay? Should I come—prepared?”

Felicity bit her lip, unsure of the answer to both questions. “Just—just get here. We’re—you and me, specifically—in a bit of trouble.” She heard him inhale sharply, and blurted, “But we can handle this! We handle worse than this all the time, and I’ve kind of done this one before, although maybe not quite so, uh, _scary_ , so—we can do this.”

"Felicity," Oliver snapped; not exasperated, just bringing her back to herself. "I’m on my way."

She took a deep breath, nodded to herself, and said, “Okay.”

He had already hung up.

—

Oliver stood at the foot of her bed, the disemboweled bear in one hand and the butterfly knife in the other while Felicity explained about their “fan.”

When she trailed off, he looked up at her under slightly raised brows—that attentive look of his that was always somehow _challenging_ , just daring her to argue with him; a bait she often took. “You’re not staying here tonight.”

She opened her mouth, but found she didn’t really have a reason or desire to object to that. “But where am I supposed to go?”

"We," Oliver emphasized, chin bobbing slightly as he dropped the bear, snapped the knife closed and shoved it in his back pocket. Taking a step towards her, he carefully raised his hands and brought them down on her shoulders. " _We_ are checking into a hotel for tonight. I’m gonna call Digg to get his friend in that security company to install a better alarm system here, and tomorrow we run fingerprints on this stuff and traces on the emails.” She let her shoulders droop as she released a breath she hadn’t realized she was holding, nodding along. He rubbed comforting fingers along the edges of her collarbones, dipping his head to make sure he had 100% of her attention. “And tonight, I don’t want you far from me. Okay? I need to be where I can see you’re safe.”

She let her eyes slide closed, covering one of his hands with her own and stroking the skin of his knuckles. “Okay. Normally I’d probably be _less_ okay with this, but tonight, on top of me is kind of where I want you, too.” Her eyes flew open, color flooding her face and mouth dropping open. “Oh my _god_ , I meant—I meant I want to keep an eye on you too!” She cringed, and he bit his lips together, eyes crinkling at the corners. “Because—because whoever this is, they’re obsessed with you too! And not happy! I was totally not coming on to you, _wow_.”

She shook her head as he gave in and chuckled, saying her name softly. Blowing out a hard breath, she squeezed his hands and looked back up at him seriously. “I just mean that you’re in just as much danger as me with whoever this is, and I’d feel better being able to _know_ you’re safe for tonight.” Her brow wrinkled as she stared over his shoulder at the wall. “But there is one problem. I can’t afford much better than a Holiday Inn right now, and those places really creep me out, and you’re, well.” She shrugged, wincing sympathetically. “Broke now?”

He smiled at her, slow and warm, one eyebrow climbing. “Felicity. I’m pretty sure my version of ‘broke’ isn’t your version of ‘broke.’” He outright grinned, then. “The Queen family has rewards points with a few of the better hotels in the city. We’ll cash in on one of those.” He bit the inside of his cheek, nose wrinkling. “Just one wrinkle. How do you feel about sharing a suite?”

Felicity flushed again, lips thinning and head tilting back in a Lord-give-me-strength gesture. “It’s—not exactly ideal, for… reasons. But how much choice do I _actually_ have here?”

Sighing, Oliver squeezed her shoulders, running his hands up and down from neck to elbows and back again. Mouth flattening in _completely_ insincere sympathy, he replied, “Not a lot.”

Nodding shortly in unsurprise, Felicity awkwardly punched his chest, roughly over where she knew his Bratva tattoo was etched. “Okay, Roomie. Wanna help me pack?”

Oliver chuckled. “Sure. Just let me make a few calls first.”

Felicity nodded and tried not to miss his hands when he stepped into the hall, thumb on his cell phone. “Oh, boy.”

Between the stalker and Oliver, Felicity was in _serious_ trouble.

**Author's Note:**

> Maybe. MAYBE I'll write a scene at the hotel. We'll see how it pans out.


End file.
